©Anne Thomas 2007

The Taming of the Switch - Chapter One

Kate Rogers dabbed rose oil in the valley of her breasts, exposed by her low-cut leather bustier. Sliding her finger underneath the edge of her skin-tight black microskirt, she rubbed the excess oil high on the inside of her thigh. A deep breath filled her lungs with the scent of leather and roses. She shivered as her finger brushed her newly bare sex, inadequately covered by a simple black cotton thong.

God. Just the smell of leather, a touch, and she felt horny as a sailor on shore leave.

A session at the Warehouse, in the second-floor dungeon of Kansas City’s oldest pansexual leather bar, would hopefully scratch her itch. Her friend Chris was a great guy–hot, responsive, a bisexual bottom who shared Kate’s love of flogging. And since he was head over heels in love with his Master, who graciously didn’t mind if Chris and Kate played when he was unavailable, Kate could enjoy the pleasure of a good BDSM scene without any potentially messy emotional entanglements.

For the last two years she’d been careful to restrict her ‘play dates’ to men who were only interested in a one-time scene, or men who were safe, like Chris. Kink was for sexual satisfaction only—Kate saved her more tender feelings for her friends and her  business. Masochist or not, she had no desire to fall in love with a play partner who didn’t love her back.

She’d learned that lesson the hard way.

She shrugged into a full-length cashmere coat that would protect her bare shoulders and legs from the bitter winter night until she got downtown. A practiced toss of her head freed her shoulder-length chestnut hair from the coat’s collar. She cast a lazy, come-hither glance into the cheval mirror on the wall next to the door, her whiskey-gold eyes half-lidded, seductive. Her lower belly tightened and a fresh burst of moisture soaked the crotch of her thong.

She gave her reflection a startled grin. Hazards of being a switch, I guess. Act all dominant and I turn myself on. She steadied herself on her knee-high, spike-heeled boots, then grabbed her keys and a small black duffle bag from the neat desk in her office at Rogers Antiques and Appraisals. She was more than ready to get down to the Warehouse and let Chris get her off.

At least, she was ready until she saw her best friend and business partner come into the shop. Kate watched unnoticed from the doorway of her office as Isabelle Monroe staggered to the eight-foot slab of polished walnut that served as their customer service counter, her petite body straining under the weight of a large cardboard box. Short sable curls tousled and cheeks flushed from the cold night, Belle rounded the counter, set down the box, then tore it open and began rummaging through it.

Kate thought about clearing her throat to warn Belle she wasn’t alone, then didn’t. If Belle was startled by Kate’s presence it would serve her right. “Oh my God, Belle. Working on a Friday night? We have got to find you a man.”

Belle squeaked and whirled. Styrofoam packing peanuts fluttered around her like snow. She clutched a rectangular package awkwardly against the front of her prim white tailored blouse, the package’s paper wrapping crinkling with each rapid breath. “Kate! I thought you were going out after we closed at six?”

“I wanted to finish the quarterly reports before the weekend, so I stayed late. I brought my stuff here to change.” Kate lounged against the doorjamb, debated for a moment, then let her coat fall open. Belle was one of the few people Kate trusted with what she did on her off hours. “As you can see, I’m on my way out the door.”

Belle’s gently curving brows disappeared under corkscrew curls, gray eyes widening behind round wire-framed glasses as she stared up at Kate. “Wow. All you need is a riding crop and you’d look just like one of the pictures I saw on this website last night.” She gulped, cheeks pink for a reason that Kate bet had nothing to do with the weather. “Um, a website that I totally found by accident while I was looking for, uh...”

“A pair of heels to go with the white satin corset and silk stockings you bought this week?” Kate grinned at Belle’s shocked look and straightened. “Don’t bother denying it; I peeked in your bag from Leather and Lace when you came back from lunch on Monday.”

Hips swinging, Kate strode across the shop on long, coltish legs, easily skirting a Victorian-era chest of drawers, a six-shelf glass-fronted bookcase filled with the first-edition books that were Belle’s area of expertise, and a low-slung Edwardian chaise lounge. She joined Belle at the counter, gave her friend an expectant look and continued, “Please tell me you bought that outfit to wear for somebody besides Bob.”

Belle’s guilty look was all the answer Kate needed.

“There’s nothing wrong with Bob,” Belle protested, her color going from pink to scarlet.

Kate heaved a sigh, absently approving of the way the movement showcased her cleavage. “Belle, the Battery-Operated Boyfriend is for those dry spells between men. It’s not supposed to replace them.” Seeing Belle’s embarrassed expression, Kate reached over and warmly clasped Belle’s shoulder. “You’re not frigid, kiddo. Not being able to get off with your ex-husband was his fault, not yours. He wasn’t giving you what you needed.”

Belle clutched the package–some sort of oversize book, Kate thought–more tightly to her chest. “I’m never drinking tequila with you again,” she mumbled. “I shouldn’t have told you about…that. It was too private.”

Kate arched a brow in disbelief. “Oh come on, Belle. We’ve been working together for two years and you know I’m kinky–you think I tell that to everybody? You knew I was trustworthy and you thought I could help you find a guy that would do what you needed.” Kate gave Belle’s shoulder a final squeeze, sighing when the smaller woman continued staring miserably at Kate’s leather-covered chest. She used a crimson-lacquered nail to tip Belle’s chin so their gazes met.  “Lots of women have submissive urges, hon. They can only relax when they know that someone else is in charge of their pleasure. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Belle gave her a skeptical look. “Is that how it is for you?”

Kate shrugged and said lightly, “I’m a switch. Top or bottom, dom or sub, I get off on all of it.”

Belle bit her lip, looked uncomfortable. “One of the websites I was reading said that there’s more to D/s than just, you know, getting off. There’s a…spiritual connection, or something, especially for submissives. An emotional high you’re supposed to get when you totally give up your control.”

“There can be, yeah.” Kate tried to keep her tone neutral, not bitter. Belle was just beginning to explore her submissive urges and was no doubt nervous about it—she needed reassurance. She didn’t need to hear about the man who’d given Kate the most erotic month of her life, the one man she’d let get close, only to be devastated when he dumped her without explanation.

Dumped? Her subconscious was incredulous. He left you a Dear Jane message on your voicemail, Kate. He thanked you for bottoming for him, then said he didn’t need you any more. That’s not dumping you, that’s scooping your fucking heart out with a spoon.

Whatever. I got over it. With an effort, Kate pushed away the painful memories. She was proud of her steady voice when she continued, “The kind of connection you’re talking about usually happens when there’s a strong bond, a sense of trust. When the person who’s doing the stuff to you is as important as what’s being done.” She managed a small smile for Belle. “That’s what a lot of submissives in the lifestyle are looking for, you know. That one special person who can be trusted to push their limits but keep them safe while they fly.”

Belle smiled uncertainly. “You think he’s out there? The one I…need?” She tilted her shoulders, gesturing to Kate with the book clasped awkwardly in her arms. “I mean, if you haven’t found him yet--”

“It’s different for me.” It came out flat, final.

Belle lifted her dusky brows in surprise. “Why?”

“Because I’m a switch. The male subs want a full-time mistress, and I can’t do that—sometimes I don’t want to be in control. And most of the dominants I’ve met come on too strong, start ordering me around, like that’ll bring out my submissive side. And forget them offering to bottom if I feel like turning the tables. That kind of attitude pisses me off.”

Belle’s gray eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You said most of the doms. Not all?”

Dammit. Belle was too observant for her own good. “There was…this one guy, a couple years ago,” Kate said reluctantly. “He was a novice dominant, looking for an experienced bottom to help him learn the lifestyle. I do that sometimes, especially if the guy seems decent. Make sure they know what they’re doing before they take on a sub of their own.”

 Belle’s eyes were wide. “So it was what, a mentor thing?”

“It started out that way.” The memories were crashing over her now, like a tidal wave. Kate struggled to keep her head above water. “He was polite when he approached me. Ex-military or something, he had that air of command without the arrogance, you know? Respectful, too. He was willing to learn.”

And God, did he. She closed her eyes, rubbing her wrist at the phantom sensation of leather restraints ghosting across her skin.  Heat blazed between her thighs as she remembered her legs being tied wide apart, the rough touch of calloused fingertips pinching her nipple as a thick, heavy cock tenderly fucked her wet, vulnerable body.

Pretty Katie. Dane McAllister’s husky voice echoed in her memory, his green eyes dark with passion and focused wholly on her. Gonna come for me, pretty Katie? Oh yeah, baby, like that. God, just look at you…

 “What happened?” Belle’s innocent question yanked Kate back to the present.

She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “He got too good at it. Brought out my submissive side like no one ever had. But he was looking for a teacher, not a lover, so it…ended.” She shrugged, forced herself to meet Belle’s eyes. “It happens, Belle. That’s why communication in this lifestyle is so important. When you start looking for somebody, make sure you both understand what the deal is before you play. That way, nobody gets hurt.”

Look for The Taming of the Switch in October 2007 from Amber Quill Press!

***

Just Friends - Chapter One

Eli Walsh stood at the bar of the Eagles Gentleman’s Club, scrubbing a tense hand through his spiky brown hair and hoping like hell he hadn’t made a mistake by coming here.

He shifted on the barstool, his skin-tight black jeans rasping across the cracked vinyl. The Eagles was a dive, with battered couches pulled up to the dance floor, and tiny booths with scarred wood tables tucked into dimly lit corners. The miasma of cigarettes, beer, leather and male musk was thick enough to swim in and left Eli hard and aching in his jeans.

He tipped his head back to ease the tension in his neck and followed the pattern of stains on the ceiling. A good mural would do wonders for this place. He imagined lying on a scaffold, his nose just inches from the plaster as he did the work he loved. He’d paint something vibrant and bright, with sapphire blues, jungle greens, and sunset reds to bring a little color to the stark black and white of the clientele.

He doubted they’d notice. Why look at art when you could watch men grinding, men caressing, men sucking? The Eagles was a gay bar, true, but the black leather-clad patrons with nearly nude men kneeling at their feet weren’t here for the décor.

Neither was Eli. He’d ventured into a fetish bar for the first time in his life because his best friend was here somewhere, lost in the sea of leather and vinyl and skin.

Eli hadn’t even known Wolf Grant was into the kink scene when his friend’s autocratic landlord told him about Grant’s taste for S&M. Discovering Ian Forsyth knew more about Grant’s sexual preferences than Eli did had hurt. He guessed it shouldn’t have–after all, Grant and Ian had known each other for a long time. Ian owned the Bookshoppe on the level above Grant’s tattoo studio on Telegraph Avenue, and their apartments were opposite each other on the building’s third floor. You were bound to find out stuff about a guy, if you lived next door to him long enough.

Still, it had bothered him, that Grant hadn’t said anything to Eli about his dating habits. They had been friends for the better part of a year, drinking beer and shooting pool and comparing their art–Eli’s on walls and Grant’s on flesh. The two of them were close...or so Eli had thought.

But the knowledge that Grant was out cruising for a guy at an S&M club had hit Eli like an anvil to the head–or more accurately, the heart. It made him realize that no matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise, just being Grant’s friend wasn’t enough. He wanted, needed more.

So Eli had screwed up his courage, shed his shirt at the club’s door–who knew a navy polo wasn’t approved fetish attire?–and decided to tell Grant that sometimes when they were on Grant’s couch watching baseball, Eli fantasized about ripping open Grant’s pants, pulling out other man’s cock, and fucking himself on it until they both passed out.

Or maybe he’d just grab a beer, find Grant, and point-blank ask him for a date. Casually. Hey Grant, want to go out sometime?

Eli was confident. He was in control.

He was fucking terrified.

“Well, well, well, what’s a pretty boy like you doing alone in a place like this?” A hot, unfamiliar hand dropped on Eli’s bare shoulder, jerking him out of his reverie. “Wanna keep me company, pretty boy?”

Eli swiveled on the stool and faced a heavyset, older blond, his beer gut barely contained by a leather vest, a smug expression on his craggy face. Eli shrugged pointedly, but the guy’s hand only tightened on Eli’s shoulder.

Eli’s eyes narrowed at the manhandling. “I’m looking for somebody.”

“Yeah. Me.” The man’s voice was sultry and his light green gaze possessive, moving over Eli like a butcher sizing up a particularly tasty cut of beef. “Just look at you, with those big blue eyes, that strong square jaw. Bet you were All-American in high school, weren’t you? Had all the cheerleaders begging you to fuck ’em. But you like cock, don’t you, boy? Like to be on your knees, dick in your ass or down your throat. I can help you with that.” The hand on Eli’s shoulder began to press down. “Go on, boy, drop. Bet that sweet mouth will feel damn good around my rod.”

Eli slid off the barstool and stared the leatherman down, smirking when the guy increased pressure on Eli’s shoulder–and got nowhere. “Get your hand off me, asshole.” Eli’s grin turned sharklike. “I bite.”

Green Eyes’ grip grew punishing. “Why, you little–”

“Little, Ted? Kid’s got three inches on you. And he’s taller, too.” Wolf Grant draped a companionable arm over Eli’s shoulder, the movement dislodging Ted’s unwelcome hold. White teeth surrounded by a close-cut, reddish-gold beard gleamed in a pirate’s grin. “Maybe you ought to get on your knees for him.” The six-foot-five muscle-bound tattoo artist arched one ruddy eyebrow. “C’mon, Ted. Be a man. Admit you’re finally ready to try life on the bottom.”

Ted scowled at them both, then spun around and stomped off. Grant’s arm slid away and Eli turned to find his friend’s bright amber gaze thoughtfully regarding him.

“Jesus, kid.” The laugh lines at the corners of Grant’s eyes disappeared. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d pick up a guy.” Be casual. Be cool, for God’s sake. He was trying, he really was, but now that Grant was here in front of him, all Eli wanted was for Grant to touch him again.

Grant, meanwhile, was staring at him in surprise. “You came here looking for a date?”

“I stopped by your place first. I was in the neighborhood, thought you might want to grab a beer. Ian told me where you’d gone.”

Grant’s gaze immediately turned wary. “You were looking for me, then?”

Oh, shit. Eli’s stomach dropped faster than an express elevator. He knew that look. It was the same one his first high-school crush had given him, when Eli had screwed up his courage and asked him out after a night of mutual masturbation.

“Hell, dude, that was just messing around,” his buddy Jeff had said. “Guy stuff. I don’t want to be your boyfriend, for God’s sake. The last thing I need is for you to get all girly on me, Walsh. I thought we were friends.”

“Figured I’d chase you down. Say hey and see exactly what kind of a place this is,” Eli said quickly, that teenage memory washing his confidence away like dust in a rainstorm. Asking Jeff out had ruined their friendship; what if telling Grant he was attracted to him did the same thing?

Grant gave him a searching look, then his tense expression relaxed into his usual grin. “Huh. Didn’t know you were kinky, kid. Or is this your first time in a place like this?”

“Damn. I’m that obvious? Maybe you better tell me how this shit works.” Eli forced a teasing tone, but his voice went husky when he got a good look at what Grant was wearing. “By the way you’re dressed, I guess you’ve done this before.”

At Wolf Ink, his tattoo studio, Grant favored tie-dyed T-shirts, cutoffs, and sandals, whatever the weather. Eli figured Grant used the hippie look to put his clients at ease. Grant’s sharp features, tattooed, muscle-bound body and shoulder-length red-blonde hair made him look like a Viking warrior one good mad away from burning down villages and pillaging the womenfolk. The incongruity of him in rainbow colors and flip-flops made it obvious Grant wasn’t nearly as scary as he appeared.

But Grant wasn’t wearing tie-dye now.

Custom-cut black leather clung to long legs and powerful thighs, tight enough to make it clear Grant’s impressive size applied to his package, too. Eli jerked his gaze away from Grant’s crotch, but found the rest of his outfit just as titillating. Grant’s exposed chest was covered only by an x-shaped black leather harness and ginger curls that narrowed to a thin line bisecting his abdomen. The Road to Glory. Eli followed that line of hair south, then jerked his gaze back to Grant’s face. God, stop thinking about Grant’s dick before you embarrass yourself.

Grant didn’t seem to notice, thank God. The tattoo artist was staring at Eli with a curious but otherwise affable expression on his chiseled features.

“So you wanna know about the leather scene, huh? Sure. Let’s grab a beer, find a table and we’ll talk.” He started toward the bar, but stopped when Eli laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Problem?”

“Nah, would just be better to let me go first.”

Grant’s eyebrow rose again. “Because...?”

Eli took a breath and figured, what the hell. Grant had never seemed to mind Eli’s teasing before, though he’d never taken Eli up on the subtle flirting. Besides, all Grant had to do was look down and see Eli’s hard cock outlined against his tight jeans to know where his thoughts had wandered. “Because if you don’t I’m gonna be staring at your ass all the way to the bar, and drool is so not a good look on me, okay?”

Grant looked down. Eli’s cock twitched and a spark of hope ignited in his chest at the flicker of speculation in his friend’s eyes. Then it was gone, Grant grinning that familiar grin. He stepped aside with one long arm swept out in front of him. “After you, kid.”

Watch for 'Just Friends' in June 2007!

© Anne Thomas Romance 2007